


The Hand Job

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advertising, M/M, biscuit!porn, lube products
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: Aziraphale gets a part-time job. Plants are terrorised. Biscuits get eaten. Crowley somehow gets it right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I submitted a prompt to the Good Omens Holiday Exchange that Az would get this particular job with an invite to write 'as smutty as you dare' but the prompt wasn't chosen.  
> That's why you now get this sorry excuse for smut.
> 
> Also I managed to include allusions to three other of my fics in this piece, so I'm building my own little 'verse.
> 
> (This fic was brit-picked by [internetpiratearrr.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/internetpiratearrr/pseuds/internetpiratearrr) Thank you!)

Crowley was peeved.

He’d actually _liked_ that peperomia. Even after threatening it appropriately, it had continued to look a bit peaky. He’d even gone so far as to pamper it with a bit of plant food and a Mozart horn concerto. The fact that its heart-shaped leaves had trembled as he’d shown it around to its colleagues as an example of insubordination before pitching it to the kerb had left him feeling disturbingly unsettled instead of with the satisfaction of a problem resolved.

He stomped back upstairs, glared at the other houseplants, and flopped on the sofa in disgust, his feet balanced atop one arm and his head comfortably settled on a lavish pile of plush pillows. Grabbing the remote, he clicked on Channel 4. The Golden Girls. _Perfect._

He soon found himself engrossed in the somewhat implausible plot, even agreeing at times with the imbecilic laugh track. Irritated at the interruption of an advert break, Crowley growled and headed to the kitchen to grab a ginger beer.

Inwardly, however, he was secretly pleased. The adverts were inducing just the kind of behaviour he’d intended. Annoyance, mindless consumption, desire for something one doesn’t yet have…

He returned to the sofa, can in hand, just in time to catch the end of the last advertisement: Viennese Raspberry Creams. Crowley fully approved, having had some at Aziraphale’s just last night. He took a sip from his ginger beer, then did a sudden spit-take as the hands on screen gently twisted the top off the biscuit to display its delicate pink filling. _Wait a minute. I know_ _those hands._ They didn’t belong to the spokesperson whose head and voice now filled the screen. They belonged to… _Aziraphale!_

It’s quite disorienting to see something as out of context as an angel (or a friend, or the angel one might consider a friend) on a broadcast TV advert, but Crowley was sure of it. After all, Aziraphale had performed much the same action last night before licking the cream filling off the bottom wafer. Crowley had watched, temporarily mesmerised, before vociferously biting into his own biscuit and deliberately masticating it to a homogenised mush while simultaneously staring at Aziraphale. The angel had seemingly taken no notice, continuing to pontificate about some example of an uplifting tenet he’d observed earlier that day.

(The evening had further degenerated rather pleasingly into a drunken discussion of the merits of the punt in a wine bottle. Crowley had argued the dimple as a way to make the bottle look larger without increasing the volume of its contents, and also to make it easier to hold and pour when drunk. Aziraphale advocated that the punt made cases of wine easier to stack, with the extra fold of glass allowing for improved resistance to the increased pressure of sparkling wines.)

Crowley distractedly returned to the programme, but the plot had debased into cringe-worthy moralising. He flipped it off in disgust and lay back on the pillows, deep in thought. Despite the Arrangement, Crowley was never quite sure what the angel was up to. Or what he was thinking (especially about his counterpart). He got sidetracked by a pleasant daydream involving biscuits before regretfully returning to the matter at hand. Could Aziraphale be trying to subvert Crowley’s admitted delight in promoting excess and greed? The demon was determined to get to the bottom of it. But as he mulled over the scenario, his mind kept drifting back to the thought of Aziraphale untwisting the biscuit and licking the cream, his teeth nibbling the wafer’s edge, his lips smacking in satisfaction, the bliss in his eyes as he’d swallowed…

Crowley ran downstairs to the Bentley. His abandoned plant was still at the kerb, a bit wilted but not looking too much the worse for wear. Crowley grabbed it and set it on the seat next to him, gunned the engine, and made the short drive to Aziraphale’s bookshop. The foliage quivered in a manner that appeased Crowley’s sense of tyrannical horticulture.

With the peperomia tucked under his arm, Crowley burst through the door of the bookshop. As the bell on the shop door jingled, Aziraphale looked up from some paperwork he’d laid out on his desk.

“Good afternoon, Crowley!” he said brightly. The angel eyed the plant benevolently. “Weeding out your collection? You know, a weed could be a flower planted in the wrong place… “

“You know what, Aziraphale?” Crowley irritably concurred as he set the plant none too gently on the counter. “You’re exactly right! Let’s see if this plant prefers your dusty, dingy bookshop to my clean, sunlit flat!”

Aziraphale tsked as he got up to examine the plant. “Well, if you insist. I’m sure that whatever you’ve done, this plant is very forgiving. You’re just in time for tea. I just thinking about making myself a cuppa. Doing accounts is so tedious! Join me?”

Crowley assumed his regular position on Aziraphale’s sofa as the angel fussed in the kitchen. Presently he came out into the main room with a tray laden with tea accoutrements and a generous pile of Viennese Raspberry Creams. He set the tray on the coffee table and began to pour.

“Aha!” said Crowley. “Those are the same biscuits as last night!”

“Well, yes and no,” Aziraphale agreed. “They are the same kind, but I’ve opened a new package. I’ve got several more packages in the cupboard. If you like them that much, I’ll send a bag home with you.” He selected a biscuit off the tray and began to twist it in his hand.

Crowley eyed the motion and set down his teacup. “I saw an advert today on the telly. An advert for Viennese Raspberry Creams,” he said flatly. He waited for Aziraphale’s reaction.

“That’s nice, dear” replied Aziraphale guilelessly. He removed the top wafer and started nibbling the edge of it.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Crowley queried, with just a touch of petulance. He caught himself staring at Aziraphale as the biscuit top was slowly consumed. He took a large bite from his own layered biscuit.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” The angel smiled. At Crowley? At the pink-topped delicacy in the palm of his hand? It was hard to tell. “I’m now a model for The Rainn Agency.”

Crowley choked on his biscuit. Then he gawked at the angel, who was wearing his usual attire of frumpy jumper, corduroy trousers, Oxford button-down, and tartan bowtie. “You?” he spluttered.

“Oh, yes,” continued Aziraphale cheerily. “Apparently, there’s quite a demand for hand models. Hands get featured in quite a few adverts that demonstrate products, both in print and on the telly. Also, hand models often stand in for actors in close shots. Not everyone,” he paused for a moment to inspect his perfectly buffed fingernails, “has hands that photograph well. I was at Pinkies getting my weekly manicure about a month ago when a delightful young woman came up to me and exclaimed that I’d be perfect for it. She was so enthusiastic that I agreed to give it a try. I’m donating the money to the Society of Mary at Leicester Square, but I kept the biscuits.”

“You gave away the money but kept the biscuits,” Crowley echoed sotto voce. “So tell me, what else have you modeled for?”

Aziraphale began to lick at the cream. “Mmm. Well, I did a print job for a local jeweler – watches and rings. Oh! And I had to slide my hand into another man’s front pocket because the director liked my hands better than his. It was to pull out a mobile phone. It was a bit awkward.”

Crowley tried to visualise the scene and decided he didn’t like it. “Define ‘awkward.’”

‘Well, I rather had to wrap myself around him so it looked like it was _his_ hand. We had to do the take over and over. It was difficult to hold that position for so long…“

“Tell you what,” Crowley interrupted. “How about I go with you to your next job? I could act as your agent.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale replied. “I have another shoot tomorrow. But I don’t know what it’s for. They never tell me until I show up.”

 

++

 

Aziraphale opened the door of the Bentley. “I really am grateful that you decided to come along, Crowley. It saves me a trip on the train.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Crowley eyed the rather utilitarian exterior of the warehouse-district address. “This hardly looks glamourous.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” said Aziraphale loftily as he buzzed the intercom.

“Get off it. You judge _plenty_ of books by their covers. At the bookshop, you have a whole _section_ of books…oh, hello.” The door was opened by a young lady who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her braided hair hung to her shoulders and she wore jeans and a crop top.

“Azirafel?” she inquired, looking at Crowley.

“No, no, no,” said Aziraphale, shouldering past Crowley and holding out his hand. “I’m Azirafel. This is my…associate.”

“Agent,” Crowley corrected. He also held out his hand. “Crowley.”

The young lady looked amused. "Seems like everyone’s now using just one name in the business.” She shook both their hands in turn, taking gentle care with Aziraphale’s. “I’m Emily, the production assistant. I do have two names, but you won’t be able to pronounce my last name, so just Emily is fine. We’ve already started with some test shots to check colour palette and lighting levels. Come on back.”

“What are we shooting today?” Aziraphale asked with all the pretension of having been on three previous jobs. The two supernatural beings trailed behind as Emily led the way around a corner.

“Lube products,” she called back as her flats slapped against the worn linoleum of the hallway.

"Pardon?" Aziraphale exclaimed as Crowley blurted, "What?" Aziraphale stopped abruptly in the narrow corridor and Crowley bumped into him. _The angel smells nice_ , was Crowley's second thought. He grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and spun him.

“Angel, you can’t shill _lube!”_ he hissed. Aziraphale had looked equally startled, but then composed himself.

“Why not?” he politely disagreed. “It’s a product that helps humans improve their relationships. I can hardly object to that.”

“It’ss not sseemly,” the demon countered. “For an angel, that is.”

“My dear, you’re starting to hiss. And if you don’t like it, maybe that’s a reason I _should._ ”

“But what if… “ Crowley started.

Aziraphale carefully removed the demon’s hand from his arm and held it in his own. He looked into Crowley’s distressed eyes. “What if what?”

Crowley mentally flailed for a viable worst-case scenario. “What if they send you home with a sample?” he finished in a small voice.

“I suppose I’ll have to find some use for it,” Aziraphale responded. "I can’t let it go to waste, can I?”

He gently raised Crowley’s hand to his lips before releasing it and turning to follow Emily. Crowley swallowed hard before following.

 

++

 

Emily opened the door to the studio and Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses as he stepped inside. His first impression was of overwhelming, saturated colour. A yellow late-model [Fiat Abarth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUVluH9V1mY) was parked in front of a bright green screen. Two men were reviewing something laid out on a table, and a video camera on a stabilizer was staged off to one side. As they entered the room, both men looked up.

“Oh good, you’re here,” the one in the ball cap exclaimed, addressing Crowley. “We’re just doing a final check of the storyboard versus the script. I’m Ron, the director, and this is Jon.”

Crowley fussed nervously with the bottom hem of his suit jacket as Aziraphale stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Azirafel. This is my associate, Crowley.”

“Agent,” Crowley corrected. The two men exchanged knowing smiles.

“Crowley, you can sit in this chair here, while Emily takes Azirafel back to change.” Ron indicated a folding chair next to the table.

“She’s going to help him change?” Crowley stood up again.

Ron chuckled. “I’m sure he can do that on his own. But Emily has his wardrobe set up.”

The director briefly showed Crowley the storyboards and script as Jon fiddled with an adjustment on his hand camera. “Our backdrop is green so we can add the scenery in later,” he explained. “It’s a lot cheaper to do everything in post-production rather than try to control an outdoor shot.” As the demon studied the material, an amused smile curled his lip when he realised what type of lube was being promoted.

Aziraphale appeared, rolling up the sleeves on a light blue chambray shirt. “Good,” Ron approved. “Now, what we need first are several still shots of you holding the product.” He handed Aziraphale a 2L product container and the angel’s face went white.

“Is this the extra-large size?” he questioned.

“Well, it’s not the largest size Slipps sells, but it’s the best size in proportion for composition of this shot,” the director answered. He demonstrated to Aziraphale how to hold the container before Jon took multiple photographs. Crowley smirked from his vantage point in the chair. _It’s a good thing they’re not including your face, angel._

“Okay, got all those shots,” Jon stated after reviewing the script. “Now we need some video footage of you with the car.” Emily stepped on stage to pop the bonnet.

“I hardly see what a car has to do with…” Aziraphale held up the jug up to eye level and finally read the label. “Oh.” Crowley was shaking with mirth in his chair. Both the men had moved offstage so luckily no one had heard the entire exchange except for him.

“Crowley, it’s engine oil,” Aziraphale said in a stage whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His color had returned to the point that he now looked slightly red. And completely vexed. The demon shrugged and held up his hands in false appeasement as the director and cameraman returned.

“Azirafel, what I need you do is take the cap off that container and pour oil into the oil fill. Jon’s going to get very close to your hands as he pans the camera right to left for this shot from the front of the car while you’re hanging over the right fender. Got it?”

Aziraphale looked into the tightly packed engine compartment. “Could I have a word with my agent, please?” Ron sighed and waved Crowley over.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale urgently asked, “where’s the oil fill?”

The demon’s shrug this time was genuine. “Beats me. I’ve never had to put oil in my car. And it looks nothing like this.” The components looked like a bunch of randomly shaped parts intricately fitted together in some sort of cryptic mechanical 3D collage.

The angel scanned the compartment like searching for a certain phrase on a densely worded page. “Ah. Here it is. ‘Engine Oil.’” He turned triumphantly to look at Crowley. Crowley was tracing his finger lovingly over the embossed scorpion logo on the red engine cover.

“You guys get it settled? We need to keep on schedule,” Ron said warningly. Crowley backed away and Jon took his spot at the front of the Fiat. Aziraphale took the cap off the oil fill, opened the container of engine oil and poured the liquid into the opening as easily as if he were pouring the first bottle of the night into his and Crowley’s glasses. He did it five or six times, until Jon was satisfied with each element of the shot.

“OK, gents, that’s all for today,” Ron announced. Jon confirmed his backups as Emily produced a timesheet for Aziraphale to sign.

“You also get to take home this bottle of lube product,” she said with a smile, handing a jug to Aziraphale, “compliments of our client.”

 

++

 

The Bentley gurgled happily as Crowley poured the contents of the 2L container of Slipps Engine Oil.

“How do you know you’re putting it into the right place?” Aziraphale asked, hanging over the fender by the demon’s side. The car was parked in front of the bookshop and the late afternoon shadows had already crept across the demon’s favourite parking spot.

“I don’t,” admitted Crowley. “But I can tell that she likes it.” He involuntarily released a satisfied sigh.

“I would think,” said Aziraphale, placing his arm around Crowley’s waist, “that it matters _very_ much.”

Crowley turned and the angel placed his hands – those beautiful, photogenic, _perfect_ hands – on either side of his face and pulled him in for a gentle kiss.

Crowley’s eyes opened wide in surprise but he allowed Aziraphale to press him against the spotless bodywork. The hands slid back to cradle his head and finger through the longer hair at his nape, softly kneading the sensitive skin just above his collar. As the kiss increased in intensity, Crowley felt himself melting, his lips opening to accept the angel’s tongue. He reciprocated with his own, deeply inhaling the angel’s intoxicating scent. The demon’s hands moved across Aziraphale’s shoulders and down his back to find their way underneath his jumper, tugging at his shirt to make contact with the skin underneath. Aziraphale groaned at the touch and broke the kiss to brush his lips across Crowley’s cheekbone and nip at the tender skin just under his jaw. The demon let out a small yelp of surprise and ran his hands up the angel’s sides to pull him closer. As the embrace became more fervent it was apparent the sensual interplay was becoming a bit too risqué for their very public setting.

“Get a room!” called a jovial passerby on her way into Intimate Books.

“Ah...ah…Let me just strap the Bentley up and maybe we can take this inside?” Crowley struggled to catch his breath. He turned around to close the bonnet flap. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him from behind as the demon grappled with the buckles of the leather bonnet straps on his car. Crowley could feel the angel’s warm breath against his ear and his hands move lower to fumble in the same manner with Crowley’s belt buckle. He could feel an insistent hardness pressed against his arse. Startled, the demon scrabbled sideways until he was trapped between Aziraphale and the spare tire.

“Aziraphale?” he squeaked. “What’s gotten into you?”

The angel looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes as he struggled to control his breathing. His bowtie was askew and his shirt was rucked out from beneath his jumper. Crowley quickly straightened his own garments. And pushed the tab on his belt back through the loop.

“It’s just,” Aziraphale gasped, “I can’t help thinking about the way that you eat biscuits! I know it may sound silly, but… it’s so forceful and decisive!” Crowley, who couldn’t recall a single forceful decision he’d made in his life that hadn’t somehow involved Aziraphale, was flustered by the revelation. However, the manner in which the angel was now staring at him, as if he were a plate of biscuits to be devoured, was entirely relatable. He felt his stomach tingle and lurch in a most delightful manner. The feeling sunk lower until…Crowley squirmed as he tried to hide the growing warmth that had culminated in a twitch in his trousers.

“And then the lube earlier today,” Aziraphale continued. “We both had the same first thought! What do you think it means?”

Crowley, who’d been focussed on a thought about something enjoyable, something delicious, something best swallowed whole that had nothing to do with biscuits, slowly tugged on the end of the end of the angel’s bowtie to unravel it, ending with an upward caress against the angel’s cheek. He nodded his forehead against Aziraphale’s, his fingers tangled into the angel’s hair to comb back the unruly tendrils. “Great minds think alike? We’re on the same page?” That’s the way the cookie crumbles? Caught with your hand in the biscuit tin?” At the last, Aziraphale’s eyes flew open and he captured Crowley’s hands in his own.

They somehow stumbled up the steps of the bookshop and inside the door before Aziraphale pinned Crowley anew, this time against the front wall. “Crowley,” he breathed as he nibbled his way down Crowley’s neck, “Oh, Crowley, I’ve just been thinking about doing this to you for the _longest_ time…“ He reached down once again to unbuckle Crowley’s trousers and teasingly pulled down the zip. He dreamily closed his eyes as he slicked his palm, languorously lathing it with his tongue as the demon hungrily watched every move, before reaching down into Crowley’s pants and…

As Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, he caught a last glimpse of the peperomia on the counter. The damn thing was waving its leaves at him and _winking_.


End file.
